COURTING ‍THE MIND-MUSE

Most poets keep an idea journal where they regularly freewrite, jot down ideas and compose poems — moving through a process of drafting, revising and refining a poem until they feel it’s finished and ready to meet ‍the world. I, too, keep an idea journal for my poetry, though I don’t write in a designated book for a predetermined amount of time. My method is less conventional. I do not stick to a regimented writing schedule. Instead, I write in my journal in fits and starts. Sometimes I’ll get down pages and pages of ideas. On occasion I’ll compose a complete poem from start to finish in one sitting. More often, however, I will write when an idea, a line or phrase comes to me in a sudden rush.

When this happens, I consider it a moment of mind-muse communion. To me, ‍the concept of a muse does not connote a supernatural being outside of myself who speaks through me as a bard-receptacle, nor one who breathes or whispers poetic inspiration for me to transcribe and work into a poem. I prefer to understand what I call ‍the mind-muse as already part of me — a part that works beyond my conscious thought, but one that is always there, creating unconsciously. My job is to listen and wait for ‍the mind-muse, so that I’m ready to capture what it’s giving me.
That doesn’t mean I do nothing as a poet; I do not laze around hoping for ‍the mind-muse to visit. As I mentioned, I listen, which requires ‍the cultivation of patience. If I become antsy or try to force a poetic idea, I’m likely to find myself stymied and frustrated, unable to find my way to a poem. It’s like bushwhacking through shoulder-high stalks in a state of frenzied sweatiness only to suffer empty fatigue when finally looking back at a trail-blazed path of fallen debris. Simply put, impatience hinders my poetic process.

Rather than forcing my writing, I prefer to cultivate through preparation. This takes ‍the form of many things: listening and waiting, as I’ve already mentioned, as well as reading works by other writers. Of course reading poetry is a staple, but I also ‍court, feed and engage ‍the mind-muse by reading philosophers, philanthropists, neuroscientists, environmentalists, designers, economists and many other kinds of thinkers. Two years ago, I wrote a poem titled, “God Has New Hummingbirds,” made possible by an article published in this very newspaper, ‍The Press-Enterprise. One day I opened ‍the paper and read about very small, bird-shaped drones that a company had developed for military surveillance and reconnaissance, as well as for other espionage uses.

I didn’t think immediately, “Hey, I’m going to write a poem about that!” Instead, ‍the prospect of such devices becoming common and so undetectable nagged at my mind. I felt uncomfortable about it, although I did find ‍the colorful image of a mechanical hummingbird that accompanied ‍the article compelling and beautiful. I even cut ‍the image out. I found myself thinking, “Here is this thing that looks as though it should be a toy, but it’s not.” I imagined bird drones quietly flutter-buzzing along jogging paths I use and perching undetected on utility wires strung around neighborhoods and stores I frequent. What would they hear? Who would be listening? ‍The scenario felt very creepy. Still, I didn’t have immediate plans to write a poem about ‍the drones.

Sometime later, I found myself working on a project with two poet friends. A loose theme we had chosen for our project was current events, and ‍the technological development of those drone birds immediately came to my mind. I knew what I wanted to say about them in a poem and wrote ‍the poem with relative ease. The way I see it, ‍the mindmuse had taken ‍the combination of my conflicting responses to ‍the article — awe and unease — and enabled me to compose a poem that both elevates ‍the birds as “a safer kind of drone,” while simultaneously questioning such a drone’s “transmitting secrets / as signals” and ‍the intent of its “eye single to tattling story.” On one hand, ‍the poem contains my discomfort with ‍the prospect of drone birds as agents of a quietly ubiquitous, possibly unchecked, invasion of privacy. On ‍the other hand, ‍the poem also captures ‍the allure I felt toward ‍these “birds” — something akin to childlike delight over a toy.

In addition to waiting, listening and reading, my writing process also includes curiosity-driven observation of ‍the world around me and lots and lots of thinking. Then, I like to sit back and wait for my mind-muse to get back with me. This is my writing process. Such a seemingly unstructured writing process is not for everyone, but it works for me. It’s how I happily ‍court ‍the mind-muse.

Angela Thomson-Brenchley

Angela Thomson-Brenchley moved to the I.E. in 1998 and fell in love with its warm climate and landscape of valleys, canyons, and mountains. She holds MFAs from UC Riverside and CSU San Bernardino. Her poetry and fiction have been featured in literary journals such as Fifth Wednesday, Badlands, Ekphrasis, and the anthology In Print. In addition to leading writing workshops for youth and adults in the cities of Riverside and Redlands, Angela is also a yoga instructor and hiking buff.

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